


in quarter bloom

by boyghosts



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: 3 Idiots Fall In Love In The Most Agonizing Way Possible, And Soonyoung Has a Bad Case of Imposter Syndrome, But It's a Dog-Eat-Dog World Out There, Emotional Constipation, Farmer's Son Soonyoung Wants to Be Taemin, Growing Up, M/M, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wonhan Are Acting Majors in Film School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boyghosts/pseuds/boyghosts
Summary: Small town boy Kwon Soonyoung feels his dreams of the stage grow transient when his best friend Wonwoo moves to the city first—something he's always dreamed of doing. Years later, he puts everything on the line and follows, only to discover a world more alluring and complicated than anything on TV.Whatever happens, he'll make it. He has to; he's Kwon Soonyoung, after all.





	in quarter bloom

❃ | **chapter i: can't be stuck in quicksand if you're moving (just not too much)**

It's past five when they finally get out of their mandatory summer chores and park their bums at the end of the cul-de-sac where they live. On most days, the sun-warmed concrete would be a nuisance, but today Soonyoung welcomes it without resistance as it seeps into the dull ache of his thighs. Beside him, Wonwoo sits on a magazine to guard his skin. As the son of two well-off landowners, Wonwoo has never known what it is to toil over seedlings, Soonyoung knows, or find soil under his nails later when he does his Math homework. Soonyoung likes to imagine Wonwoo keeping house, then spending his idle time waiting for Soonyoung to come back from the cabbage pit, holding a plastic bag of strawberry twin-pops for them to split. It’s Soonyoung’s favorite part of the day.

Soonyoung makes a happy sound when the the cold treat touches his tongue. He stretches his legs out in front of him, baring a trail of bruises to the sun.

He glances at Wonwoo’s legs. They’re pale and smooth, an almost laughable contrast. Soonyoung can’t help but launch into conversation about the importance of earning more battle scars; what else was he supposed to show his kids, later when his best days are behind him and he’s old and wrinkly and trapped by his own body? Soonyoung’s latest scab, he says for example, was a result of a haphazard—but very cool—attempt at an air spin. Landed on the wrong side and nicked his shin on a wheelbarrow resting innocuously against the wall, but hey, it was cool, and if the b-boy from TV could do it, he sure as hell could too. Bet even Lee Taemin couldn’t do it. Now wouldn’t that be something?

He’s in the middle of rehashing his decade-long feelings for the youngest member of Shinee when he realizes Wonwoo hasn’t paid him a single reply since wordlessly offering the other half of his popsicle.

Soonyoung follows Wonwoo’s gaze. It falls on the pickup truck ten houses over, where two men in a flurry haul box after box off the porch and into the back of the van. Each time summer arrives, their neighbor Yerin leaves for the city, like clockwork; now, it seems she had finally decided to move out for good. Soonyoung decides he’ll miss her, but he knows everyone goes in the end, anyway. Anyone with a good head on their shoulders, that is. When he was much younger, Soonyoung thought he would go crazy too, stuck in the endless purgatory of this small town and its small-minded inhabitants.

But wearisome things lose their weight with time. Or maybe Soonyoung is just better at pretending. Whatever it is, as long as the strawberry popsicles are always in stock, and he has Wonwoo’s bony shoulder to shove at during Tekken, he thinks he’ll do alright.

“Seoul’s overrated anyway,” Soonyoung proclaims, licking off a sweet trail that trickled down his wrist. “Mom says there are more cars than people over there. Isn’t that weird? More cars than people. Shouldn’t that be, I don’t know, illegal or something?”

“I said yes,” Wonwoo says.

“Huh?”

“Remember—remember that university I was talking about? I told you I passed, right?” It takes a while for Soonyoung to recall; at the time, with the way Wonwoo told him, he thought nothing of it. Wonwoo says, “My parents told me to take it. And—I said yes.”

In the distance, their neighbor yells out something strangled. Yerin must have dropped a box full of china; Soonyoung can hear the ringing in his own ear, like tinnitus.

“Oh,” he says, after an impossibly long time. He can see Wonwoo turn to look at him, but he’s afraid of what will happen if he looks back. “When?” he says instead.

“Next month,” Wonwoo replies. Soonyoung begins to wish he was back at the farm now, ripping cabbages out of their beds. Anything than this, than the deceptive proximity of Wonwoo next to him, the burden of words.

“Next month,” Soonyoung echoes.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says. And then, “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why are you sorry? Don’t you want to?”

“I—“ Wonwoo falters. "I guess so. But... I know we joked about it, but—I don't know. Between the two us, you, well—" he turns to Soonyoung, "—I'm not the one who really wanted to go. To Seoul, I mean. So. There's that."

"Yeah, well." Soonyoung's voice drops like a stone; even he's surprised at himself, so he masks it effortlessly with a laugh. "Can't say I could've passed those exams anyway, dude. Not elite enough I suppose."

"Shut up," Wonwoo laughs and shoves his shoulder.

"You know it's true."

"Whatever, man."

"You go keep telling yourself you don't have an abnormally huge brain. You just used it to your advantage, what's wrong with that? I got a feeling you're better off in the city anyway." He laughs again, too loud. Wonwoo misses his queue to laugh back. Soonyoung notices Wonwoo’s popsicle stick, stained a deep red. Like this, Wonwoo's shoulder is close enough nap on. "Do you have to?" Soonyoung blurts, and hates the way that sounds.

He watches as the other boy bends it with his fingers. Wonwoo replies, “I guess so.” With a soft snap, the stick breaks in two. He continues, like reading off a script: “My parents—we’re opening up shop in Seoul. It’s going to be good for the business, to have one in the city. All that organic shit people go crazy for. Mom says we’re finally ready for it.” The pieces in Wonwoo’s hand multiply slowly; becoming three, then four, five. Wonwoo says, “We can finally leave town.”

The pieces fall by his feet. Soonyoung’s own popsicle has bled all over his wrist, and he watches it drip, detached.

“Damn," Soonyoung whistles.

"Yeah."

"Knew you were always meant to be a city boy.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. “Get a car and stuff. A real life and everything.”

“Guess so.”

“Maybe you can get a real dog now, too.” Wonwoo snorts; for the longest time chickens were good enough.

“Maybe.”

“A girlfriend, too.”

“If you say so.”

“So you're really going, huh?”

“Yeah.”

When Soonyoung turns, Wonwoo’s gaze has gone ahead, past the pickup truck and the pile of boxes, past the street they grew up in, then further up the forest they got lost in as kids and the cliff’s cradle where the sun sits and bakes everything it touches, and even past that. Onward. Soonyoung can’t see where it ends.

“That should be fun,” Soonyoung says. To who, he’s not so sure.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo repeats.

❃

In their eight years growing up, Wonwoo always felt see-through—like if Soonyoung blinks he'd be gone with the sun, like the rain showers that pass by their town so fleetingly they vanish without a wet spot on the concrete to ever mark its passage. Only once does Soonyoung remember him come alive. It’s also the same day Soonyoung slips off a branch trying to grab the spider Wonwoo had been so besotted by, with a love strong enough it tugged him out of bed, past curfew and all the rules his parents set in place to keep their precious son safe, with Soonyoung in tow. Soonyoung, always in tow. Soonyoung, later, with a busted arm—but those are details, details.

 _Just look at that_ , Wonwoo said, cradling the spider in his palm, but Soonyoung wasn’t paying attention—he was looking at the way Wonwoo shifted, not just in his face but something else, something more intrinsic. Even later, when it was been time to pay the consequences, Wonwoo promised: _let’s come back again. I know a secret trail, let’s come back, find the nest, do everything_. And Soonyoung stared at the glimmering triumph in his face and decided he would keep looking.

Still, Soonyoung should’ve known. Wonwoo always does as he’s told. In the end, the Jeons’ belongings go in the pickup truck, the trail remains uncharted, and Wonwoo doesn’t choose him.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” one of his aunts tell him. “It’s just university. Text!”

Soonyoung has always had a vendetta against phones, but now he avoids his own like the plague. Wonwoo texts him up to the Jeons’ last day, and in a rush of petty energy he chucks the thing against the wall with all the force in his body, denting almost half the keypad and destroying any hope of unlocking the main screen. Cut off mid-sentence, the rest of his messages read like a found poem:

 **[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 08:08 AM]**  
hey, will u help me pack m…

 **[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 08:46 AM]**  
are u still coming over? im…  
  
**[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 11:03 AM]**  
hey

 **[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 02:23 PM]**  
i know your mom says wh…  
  
**[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 04:30 PM]**  
HEY

 **[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 04:39 PM]**  
open the DAMN door s…

Outside, the sun has gone out. Buried under the blankets, Soonyoung reads the last message:

 **[New message from TRAITOR!!!DO NOT ENGAGE; 20:05 PM]**  
bye soonyoung

Soonyoung’s not proud of it, but the last one makes him honest to god sob. To say he takes it badly is probably the understatement of the century. But this misplaced pride is all he has left, and he’s determined to wear it out like all his old shirts until both of them die. Preferably himself first, so when Wonwoo comes to his wake he’ll be so sorry he ever left and then he’ll die. Out of guilt—a death he deserves.

For a while, the dull ache of betrayal is the only thing he feels. His mother says, _this is madness, you'll see each other again_. But Soonyoung isn't so sure about that. Wonwoo moving to the city—that felt right somehow, like jam on buttered toast or the tide meeting the shore. Boys like Wonwoo were always meant for bigger things; it was only a matter of time. But Soonyoung's got his own roots, his own humble path. He can only follow Wonwoo so far.

So he barricades himself in his room blaring all four Shinee albums he owns as summer makes its rounds. His phone battery dies. Out of stubbornness Soonyoung never bothers to revive it, and all of a sudden fall sweeps the town into its embrace and one whole year has passed.

❃

On his second Wonwoo-less birthday, a Minho lookalike in the form of his cousin’s boyfriend joins the party.

His extended family is huge on both sides, with a penchant for gathering under one roof regardless of the occasion, so Soonyoung is used to smiling strangers in his own house. Soonyoung is turning twenty-two in three hours, and he spends the countdown dodging the rest of his mother’s family who will inevitably ask him to dance to Rainism for the nth time tonight. He’s hungry, his cheek ache from pleasantries, and when he makes a sharp turn left at the sight of his uncle he smacks headfirst into the boy's chest.

The world tilts, but only for a second. The boy’s arms are firm around Soonyoung’s waist, steadying him. Out of sorts, Soonyoung apologizes, noting with increasing panic that the stranger has soft almond eyes right out of the poster he keeps in his bedroom. When he smiles to say “that's alright, you okay dude?” his dimples dip almost endlessly. The sound that comes out of him isn’t dignified in the least.

Before he can embarrass himself further, his visiting aunt coos and shoves them together; Soonyoung finds himself smushed against the boy’s armpit. “Selfie!” his aunt yells. The flash clicks. They exchange names— _Hey, I'm Soonyoung, oh you're Eun's boyfriend, nice to meet you_ —then wrap it up with a fist bump that's legendary in its awkwardness. As Soonyoung turns away, the smell of _boy_ lingers in his imagination.

Not a boy, his mind corrects. A _man_.

Christ, he thinks. What is this?

“Soonie, what’s your Facebook, sweetie?” his aunt calls. “I’m trying to tag you! You guys are so cute!”

“What’s Facebook?” he says too quickly. The rest of his same-aged relatives gawk at him. A second later, the chorus of disappointment that erupts is expected.

“Consider it a gift, birthday boy,” his cousin Eun insists as she grabs his phone—new, a red Samsung flip phone, a Christmas gift from his only Christian relatives—and begins to tattle on about the benefits of social awareness and not being a recluse, like everybody else in this town is shaping up to be. “Including you!” she reprimands.

Soonyoung’s mind drifts. How can Eun walk around with her boyfriend looking like Choi Minho and be this nonchalant about it during family gatherings? It’s baffling. More than anything, it’s blatant _ungratefulness_. If Soonyoung was in her place—well, Soonyoung doesn’t know what he’ll do, but he sure as hell will be doing a whole lot more appreciating.

“Oi? Still there, Kwon Soonyoung?” He yelps, smoothing over the skin Eun had pinched. She waves his phone below his nose. “It’s time to add your friends. You don’t have an address book from your email, right?”

“An address what?”

“Nevermind. Who do you want to add? Like your friends and stuff.”

“My friends…?”

“Yes, dumbo. You know, the people in your life you enjoy hanging out with. Or maybe you haven’t hung out with them for some time. That’s okay, too. We’ll add them, and you can get right on to it or whatever. You have those, right?”

He stares at the phone screen, for the moment stunned by the sheer blueness of it, blue, blue, blue, everywhere, the screen like a small window. “Lemme sit on it for a sec,” he replies, stealing his phone back. “I mean, no offence, but I don’t wanna spend my birthday on social media. Gotta live in the moment, you know?  But I'm just a dumb farmer boy, what do I know, am I right? But thanks, bye, I mean it!”

He gives her a thumbs up and misses the way she rolls her eyes at him when he disappears into the kitchen. The way something in his chest winds itself tight is difficult to ignore. He tucks his phone gently into his pocket.

Later, after much cake and obligatory alcohol, and then later stumbling into his room to mistype Wonwoo’s name eleven times in a drunken stupor before he manages to get it right—Soonyoung curls over his phone, face lit by the screen, and feels gut-punched by the awe of discovery. Bless whoever created the Internet. Most of Jeon Wonwoo’s pictures aren’t taken by him—the last personal photo he uploaded was last year, and he has a person named Hani to thank for all these recent ones.

Scrolling through each of them, Soonyoung can feel something in his chest click open, unfold. The 19 year-old Wonwoo who left him for the city is gone and dead, and he took the bowl cut and retainers with him.

“Still a fuckin’ loser,” Soonyoung slurs, but it’s a feeble last ditch effort. The cut of Wonwoo’s jaw and the unbridled way he smiles. . . Soonyoung’s mouth can lie, but the rest of him can’t. Heat brims along all his edges, a baptism in fire; he probably shouldn’t have drunk that much. Without warning, he conjures a warm mouth, steady arms on his waist, and Soonyoung watches, an audience to his own desire, as his soju-addled brain tranposes Wonwoo’s face over his phantom bedfellow.

This Wonwoo smiles down at him, open and easy. Too easy; Soonyoung aches. He wants to throw up, wants burrow out of his own skin, wants and wants and wants. He’s in panic, he realizes, mouth dry, body unused to carrying so much hunger. His hands wander. He thinks of breasts, the soft curve of a hip, long lovely hair that can drape over him, yet still, his brain chants: Minho, Minho, Dibi dibi dip, hands on my hips—

Recalls: the way Wonwoo smirked in the picture, the shape of his hands. How they would look over his own.

_Soonyoung-ah—_

When Soonyoung comes, he muffles his moan into a pillow, hips stuttering weakly into his palm.

“Fuck,” he gasps, irises blown. His phone, which fell somewhere on the floor, bathes the ceiling and half his room in light. He shields his eyes. “ _Fuck_.”

❃

These days Soonyoung spends his mornings at the farm. After cleaning out wheelbarrows and depositing bags of shit-enriched fertilizer at his father’s and running other errands to pay his dues as a dutiful son, he rushes home to catch Star Idol Search Season 3 on TV and buries himself in practice, learning to dance all the winning performances, down to the tilt of his heel against the floor. Sometimes, he catches Shinee—those are the best days.

Today, he finishes early and rewards himself with a banana and twinpops from the corner store. It still feels weird to have the whole thing to himself, but he shoves the frozen treat in his mouth before he can think of anything else.

He follows his own shadow until he stops by the swing set at his old school. He and Wonwoo were here before the swing-set was even a swing-set, back when it was just a sand pit. His shoes leave trails as he settles himself on the first swing. The chains groan softly.

 _It’s okay, I’ll do the talking for now_ , Wonwoo told him five years ago, when he found him here, in the exact same swing—just a short kid in an off-white blazer three sizes too big wearing glow-in-the-dark gloves and makeup that made kids stare. The trophy two feet away, half-buried in the sand. Soonyoung recalls: that was the first time Wonwoo used that voice on him, the same one he used to woo bristling stray cats. Like he was seconds from falling apart.

At 17, there was only two things—sleepy afternoons with Wonwoo and the town’s talent competition. Soonyoung worked and toiled and bled to create it, the perfect show, even just for a fleeting glimpse of perfection, and when he won it felt like coming up for air. There was no other option; any other result, and it would have ruined him. He knew.

His parents went ahead after his performance to close up shop. Clutching the trophy like a lifeline, he ran all the way home. The lights that fringed that path to his house were flickering, but the kitchen light shone bright from the window at a distance. His parents were crowded behind it. _Hey_ , he shouted, a few feet from the door. He would show them the trophy and they would lavish him with praise and they would eat jajangmyeon after, to celebrate, and he could finally exorcise the weight that draped itself on his shoulders everywhere he went and everything would be okay. More than okay; he would have proven himself.

Before he could say anything else, his father laughed—a rare thing. Up close, he peered past the doorway and caught his parents smiling, smiling—and there was his older sister, at the end of it.

 _The offer—I got it, it’s mine!_ his sister said, waving around the envelope, _I’m going to Seoul!_  And Soonyoung watched as his parents kissed her face and filled the air with praise.

 _Our beautiful flower_ , his father said, using the nickname; he had a tenderness Soonyoung never experienced, _you've finally bloomed_.

He’d felt nauseous then. The trophy in his hands felt counterfeit, like something he’d stolen in his sleep. Wonwoo had found him later. Picked up the trophy and shook the sand out of it. Pushed him gently on the swing, until it climbed, up and up and up—with the wind in his hair, Soonyoung could close his eyes and let the cold night wind dry his cheeks. All throughout the night, Wonwoo didn't ask questions.

Soonyoung's soles scuff the ground as his momentum jerks to a stop. There’s a bit of soil mixed in the sand under his feet. He wonders how old it is, this stuff that was here before he ever was and will probably continue to be, long after. Just last month, the rain showers turned everything grey. The street had to be swept and roofs waterproofed and the swing set re-painted. Now, Soonyoung can peel off the dried bits with his fingers.

“What am I doing,” he says out loud, but he knows the answer. He stands up, dusts the sand off his pants, and pockets one piece of the popsicle stick.

Wonwoo may have gotten a head start, but Soonyoung has no plans of falling behind. He'll practice even harder tonight, even if his bones break.

He leaves the other stick on the seat.

❃

“I’m going to Seoul to audition to be an idol,” is the first thing he says the next morning.

The old cabbage ladies stop their choir-like trot singing and turn their heads to stare. Then they start to cackle. Soonyoung stands there and takes it.

“With that face? Here’s another idea, come take this off my hands, would you?"

“I’m doing it! I will!” Soonyoung insists, but grabs the cabbage from her anyway.

“Then put that mouth to use and give us a little entertainment then!”

Of course, he rises to the challenge. He hits them with a lil TVXQ, shimmies his butt to Shinee, and does a little bit of Rainism to cap it off. He ends the whole routine with a hip thrust so violent it knocks his sun visor off-kilter.

“How sweet!” someone cooes.

“I’m going to be like Taemin,” he says, panting. He grabs the rotten cabbage by his feet throws it to the ground, for the theatre of it. “Even better than Taemin!”

No one takes him seriously. Of course.

That’s okay, he thinks. They just have to watch.

❃

The warehouse isn’t the most conducive place for rehearsing choreography, but Soonyoung has always worked with what he’s got. There are rusty wheelbarrows and spare tires and sacks of fertilizer piled in the corner, but the place is big enough to hold all of it and him. Plus, it’s the only room in their house with a wall-length mirror Soonyoung can admire himself in, which makes it the best place, cracks on the edge aside.

All his routines are born here. He waters them with his own sweat and tears—for the future, he tells himself. Only two hours in, and the mirror has fogged up. Sweat trickles down his back. In the corner, he has Shinee’s second album blasting from the stereo. This particular routine is almost complete. When the last beat drops, he nails the final manoeuvre, sweat dripping into his eyes, and he roars and sinks to the floor, satisfied for now.

When he opens his eyes, his sister is watching him against the wall.

“Ah!” he screams. His hands fly to his chest. “Warn a guy!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, looking not sorry at all. She bends down to shut the stereo off before the first few seconds of Juliette trickle in. She smiles, says, “You’ve really gotten better. You don’t dance like you got chicken legs anymore. Did you choreograph that yourself?”

“Well, duh,” he says. "It's nothing _—_ " Taps the side of his head. “ _—_ Just got it here.”

She whistles. “Wow. You’re really serious about it, huh. This whole idol biz.”

“Who told you?”

“Gramma. Says you’re going to be bigger than Taemin.”

“W-well, maybe not right away—but yes, that is the plan.”

“You’ll need a place. And a job. While you go on auditions.”

“Details, details,” he says, but his stomach clams up just thinking about it. He gives her a smile. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You always do,” she says softly, smiling at him so sincerely Soonyoung averts his eyes.

Without realizing it, it's the most words he’s exchanged from her in weeks. These days, after his sister came back from the city four months ago, she keeps to herself and helps out at his mom's vegetable stall. _Didn’t work out_ , she said, smiling tiredly, whenever he’d asked what happened. Deep down Soonyoung knew they were the same—hoarding pride like a house of cards sure to fall, and when it did they would ignore the wreck. In those days, she walked with a brokenness so palpable Soonyoung hardly practiced, hardly slept, hardly dreamed. Thought: maybe it was in the blood. Maybe people like them were meant to stay in this small town forever after all.

Soonyoung misses her.

“Listen,” she says, brows scrunching together the same way his does whenever he wants to use his words properly. There is a stillness about her that makes her feel more solid, and it makes Soonyoung stands up straight. She says, “I used to sleep at this place, back when—and my best friend used to loan it to me for half the price. It’s right by Myeongdong station, and it’s roomy enough but not really that big, so you'll probably have to look for a studio to practice in. But it'll work. You can make it work.”

“Wait, wait,” he says, “what?”

“I’m _saying_ , your big sister found you a place, doofus," she grins. “So if you’re really serious about this whole thing—“

Soonyoung rushes towards her and grabs her hands. They’re smaller than his, soft and very very warm. “Are you for real?” he asks, and she laughs and pets his hair. Then, slowly, he lets her hands go. “But wait. I don’t know…”

“What are you hesistating for?”

Soonyoung can’t find the rhyme in it either. He knows this is a good thing, a gift—but something ugly lodges itself slyly in his chest, making him blurt, “Why… why are you giving this to me?”

His sister looks confused. “Because you’re my little brother?”

“Oh.” The thing in his chest flowers, too close to his throat. "Right.  _Duh_.”

"I mean, why else?'

"Right, gotcha."

“I mean,” he hears her sigh after a moment. “That's true, but I wouldn’t give it to you if I know you’ll fail, right?”

He looks up.

“What I’m saying is, I know you have what it takes. Not just because you’re my brother, but because you’re stubborn and annoying and also really hecking talented. Okay?” She grabs him by the scruff of his neck, and Soonyoung regrets ever underestimating the strength in her hands. She grabs his chin with one hand and squeezes both his cheeks with it; all of a sudden Soonyoung is both fifteen and twenty-two at the same time. “I know we've been kind of... dumb and weird lately, but I need you to trust me on this, okay? Just take it, don’t make it weird. I swear, you’ll get in trouble because of that one of these days. Okay? It’s called a favor." She winks. "Some things you don't have to earn.”

❃

“Um, so—“

“You’re leaving. To go to Seoul.”

From behind the newspaper, his father’s voice sounds steely. Soonyoung retracts his spoon from the rice bowl in record time and tries to make himself look taller. 

"Yes. I’m going—“

“To be an idol. I heard.”

Soonyoung watches him fold the paper and set it aside. And then his father bursts out laughing.

“I can’t believe you were serious! So you gonna dance like those pretty boys on TV?”

Soonyoung bows his head, but he can’t shake the conviction from his voice. “Yeah, and I’m gonna choreograph them too. I'll sing, dance, and _produce_. I’m the whole package!”

“Told you he was serious,” his mom quips. “Pass me the rice, sweetie.”

“Well,” his father starts, eyeing him down. “I heard them contracts last for about 7 years. All that freedom, all that stuff kids your age do - say goodbye to that. You know they wont let you date right?” He clicks his tongue. “How can I expect my son to find himself a nice girl at this rate? With a life like that? And who knows when you can actually start performing? You’ll have kids at 40 years old at this rate. And then how am I gonna get grandkids?”

“I think I like boys,” Soonyoung says into his soup.

For a long time, there is only quiet. Soonyoung doesn’t dare look at his father, doesn't dare to breathe. His lungs burn.

The confession isn't something he planned; it unraveled out of him, unbidden. Sometimes he wishes self-sabotage didn't come with being himself.

“So…" Soonyoung says after a while, "Yeah. Guess the whole grandchildren thing won’t be a problem. Unless, of course, I decide to—you know. Or that thing, whatsit, that um, artificial—"

"I got it," his father says.

"Cool,” he says. Nothing is cool; he's careening towards his own demise. Quickly Soonyoung adds, hoping like hell that he won't start choking up in front of them like this, "S-sorry."

“Well," his father manages to cough out. There is a lot of coughing before that, Soonyoung realizes. “Good. Um. Well. If you're really serious about it, well—" His father pushes himself off the table and lumbers over to the fridge; when he turns back around, he has two beers clamped by the neck in one hand. He grins, says, "I better see you on TV real soon then."

❃❃❃


End file.
